


Forever a Lost Boy at Last

by nutmeag83



Series: Second Star to the Right [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Peter Pan Fusion, Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Flying, Gen, John has a lot of responsibility on his shoulders, John is a good brother, Kidlock, Kids, Magic, Neverland, Orphans, Pirates, Sherlock is a good friend, a little sad and a lot sweet, can i come with you y'all, fairy dust, sometimes i want to fly away too, vague references to 19th c street life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 11:18:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14735972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: John and his sister live on the streets in 19th century London. When Harry gets sick, John meets a strange boy who wants to help. Who is he and could his fantastical stories be true?AKA: The one where Sherlock is Peter Pan





	Forever a Lost Boy at Last

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this little story came to me when [“Lost Boy”](https://youtu.be/58TBZnvyGwQ) by Ruth B popped up on my playlist and I thought “Sherlock is Peter Pan!” Story title comes from the song. 
> 
> My knowledge of the story is from the 1953 Disney animated movie and the 1955 televised version of the musical with Mary Martin, and said knowledge is pretty spotty because it’s been a million years since I watched either. So some of Neverland background jives with those versions, and some of it is of my own imagining. I also avoid the extremely cringe-worthy and dated names for the native peoples of Neverland. I refer to them as the Chief and his tribe, and that’s about it.
> 
> This story is also not in the least historically accurate. Hope you can ignore that! This was a spur-of-the-moment thing, so I didn’t put much research into it. I just wanted a cute story. 
> 
> Not beta’d or Brit-picked. No one cares about those things in Neverland anyway. ;) 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Why are you crying?”

John jerked out of his curled-up position next to Harry, eyes darting around the cold, dark room. He cursed himself for not making more certain that they hadn’t been followed. The room was dirty, with only a few broken chairs and no blankets, but it was still warmer and dryer than what the snowstorm outside provided. All that mattered was that here Harry could get some sleep before they tried to find somewhere better. His scan of the room didn’t yield anyone, but street urchins were good at not being seen when they didn’t want to be. But why would a street kid ask a question and then hide? Why would a street kid ask about the tears to begin with?

Sure, most kids tried to act tough, but they all knew that late at night, when someone had a few minutes to themselves, they would let the tears fall—frustration, helplessness, and anger were only given only a small outlet when staying alive was much more important. No, no street kid would need to ask why another was crying. They knew.

“Who’s there?” John called out cautiously. His hand inched toward the nearest broken chair leg as he continued to search the space with his eyes.

A tiny glow came from outside the nearby door. John gripped the chair leg just as a head peaked around the corner. In the faint light of the glow still outside the door, he managed to make out dark curly hair and a pale face. The person stepped slowly into the room, revealing an odd outfit—a short-sleeved shirt and short trousers, both of which were far too baring for the winter weather outside, and on a person too old to be wearing short trousers anyway. The boy—at least, the person had short hair like a boy—looked to be around Harry’s age, two years younger than John’s twelve.

“I did,” the boy replied haughtily. “Why are you crying?” He frowned and cocked his head, as if he truly didn’t know. Perhaps he was new to the streets. He would learn soon enough.

“Because my sister is sick, and I can’t get medicine or food or blankets for her,” John replied. He kept a hold on the chair leg. This boy could be trying to catch him off guard with his odd clothes and questions.

“Why don’t you go and get some?” The boy came further into the room, his gaze moving to where Harry slept next to John. His face was curious, but non-threatening. John scooted closer to Harry anyway.

John frowned. “Because I don’t have money.”

The boy returned his gaze to John and wrinkled his nose. “What’s money?”

“What’s– You don’t– It’s how you buy things.” Who was this kid?

“Buy?”

“You know. You give the shopkeeper coins and they give you what you ask for?”

The boy’s face lit up. “Oh! Trading. And coins are…gold and silver and such? Like pirates have?”

What an odd connection. Perhaps this boy had been kept at home, and his only source of knowledge was adventure books. “Uh, yeah, I reckon so.”

“So you find a shopkeeper who has food and medicine and blankets, and then you trade them with your coins?”

“Yeah…”

The boy thought for a while. “And then you’ll be happy again?”

Who was this boy? John shrugged. “Less likely to cry at least.”

“I see. Is that why everyone in this city looks so sad?”

“What?”

“Where I’m from, everyone is happy, except the pirates. I always thought grownups were just always sad, but here, even the children are often sad. Like you.”

So he was from a place with pirates? Perhaps he was from one of the colonies. Not that it mattered. It was just odd. The boy was odd.

“Sometimes,” John finally replied. “Sometimes someone is just having a bad day. Could be lots of things. But yeah, most of the kids who look sad are probably street urchins.”

“Street urchins?”

“Kids living on the streets, like me and Harry.”

The boy cocked his head again. “You aren’t on the streets.”

John laughed bitterly. “Near enough. It means we don’t have a home. No parents to take care of us.”

“What’s a parent?”

“What’s a– who _are_ you?”

“I’m called Sherlock. What’s a parent?”

“Where are you from?”

“Neverland. I dislike repeating myself. What is a parent?”

“It’s a…grownup who looks after you, makes sure you have food and a bed, keeps you safe.”

“Like a fairy?”

“Fairies don’t exist.”

The boy, Sherlock, rolled his eyes. “Of course they do.” He looked around the room. “Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson? Where are you, you silly thing?” He shrugged and gave up. “She’s shy.”

John raised his eyebrows. The boy must be delusional. Perhaps he’d been on the streets so long that he’d just broke. John had felt close to breaking often enough during the eight months they’d been orphans to understand how it could happen.

“So you don’t have…parents or fairies to take care of you, which means you don’t have food or a home.” He frowned. “Why don’t you just go find new ones? That’s what I did.”

“It’s not exactly easy,” John growled, tired of this delusional boy judging him.

“I did it. And I was very small at the time,” Sherlock replied with a shrug. “I went exploring one day and lost my home—hmm, I wonder if I had parents or a fairy looking after me before; I’ve never thought about it—anyway. I got lost, but then I found Mrs. Hudson, and she took me to a new home. Can you tell me a story?”

“What?” John shook his head at the change in topic. Sherlock’s thoughts bounced from one end to the other without much space in between.

“You told your sister a story earlier. I liked it. Tell me one.” Sherlock sat down in front of John, cross legged with his chin resting on one propped hand.

“Who _are_ you?”

The boy frowned. “I’m Sherlock, and I’m from Neverland. I already told you. Who are you?”

John scratched his neck, trying to figure this strange boy out. “There’s no such place as Neverland. It’s a nonsense name!”

“It _is_ real! It’s my home.”

“Then where is it? How do you get there?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Second star to the right, and straight on till morning.”

This kid was definitely a few marbles short of a set.

John sighed. “Can you leave? I need to get some sleep. We’ll have to sneak out early.”

“Why are you sneaking out of your home? Are you avoiding pirates?”

“What is it with you and pirates? No, we have to– Look, it doesn’t matter. You need to leave, I need to sleep. Please go.” His final words were more pleading and tired that he wanted, but considering his last few days, the fact that he was functioning at all was all he could hope for.

“But I have a fairy. She could look after you until you find new parents.”

“I don’t–” John lowered his voice after Harry turned restlessly. “I don’t need your fairy, alright?? I’ll find a way to get what I need. Just go.”

Sherlock frowned, inched forward, and then stopped. “What’s your name?”

There he went again, changing topics. Eight months ago, John might have found it fun, or at least funny. But now he had bigger things to worry about.

“Will you leave if I tell you?”

“Fine.”

“John.”

The strange boy stared at John for a small eternity before nodding his head. “Fine, John. Good night. Thank you for the story earlier.”

He got to his feet, brushed himself off, and headed for the door. John followed him, just to make sure he was really leaving. Instead of walking down the hallway toward the stairs, he jumped on an open windowsill in the corridor, gave a final wave, and jumped out of sight.

John gasped and ran to the window. There were two floors beneath their own. There was no way Sherlock could manage such a leap without hurting himself. He looked out the window. There was nothing below aside from snow. No broken body, not even a limping one. No footprints, at least none he could see in the dark. No wagon or carriage had gone past that he could’ve jumped on. There were no ladders or even railings for him to grab. John looked left and right, but saw no one. The street, the alley, and the walls were all clear of people.

John shook his head and looked up, noticing the snow clouds had cleared. It would get even colder tonight. He needed to find a way to get a blanket. And some food. He sighed and looked at the stars, hoping for an answer. None, of course, came. He shook his head again and walked back over to Harry, curling as closely around her as he could.

Fairies and pirates and stars. He wondered if he’d be better off believing in such things. But they wouldn’t help him get food or shelter. He was on his own for that.

***

John woke the next morning feeling warmer than he had since summer had left them. He started, thinking that Harry’s fever had worsened in the night, but when he felt her head, it was the same as the night before—a little warm, but not dangerous.

It wasn’t until he stood up that he noticed they’d been covered in a blanket. It was a little dirty, it looked and smelled more like a horse blanket actually, but it had been quite warm lying underneath it. He covered Harry with it and went to relieve himself. His plan the night before had been to try find somewhere warmer today, but along with now having a blanket he didn’t want to carry around, Harry had barely stirred when he’d woken up, meaning she probably shouldn’t be moved. He decided to sneak out himself and leave Harry sleeping. He wouldn’t go far. He just wanted to look around the area now that the storm had quit—try to see if it was safe to stay and also try to find some way to get a little food.

When he returned to their room, he noticed something he’d missed before—a bag along the wall opposite their sleeping space. He walked over and peered inside—a jar of preserved fruit, two loaves of bread, and several sausages. John felt himself thump down to his knees at the veritable feast. He looked over at the blanket-covered Harry. Sherlock? It must have been him. No one else (hopefully) knew where they were.

Who was this strange boy? And why was he helping John?

***

Sherlock didn’t make an appearance throughout the rest of Harry’s illness. John kept an eye and ear out, but it seemed to be only the two siblings in the building. Still, he told his nightly stories to Harry in an extra loud voice, just in case their odd benefactor returned. It was the least he could do for the gifts he had left them. The stories were the only thing Sherlock had asked for aside from his name. John didn’t let himself think about where they had come from—he may be a street kid, but his mum didn’t raise him to be a thief—all the same, he wasn’t about to turn down a boon when he most needed it.

Even after Harry was well enough to leave the building, John draggeda his feet about finding a new place. This one wasn’t so bad. It was out of the way, so other street kids couldn’t easily find it, and it was innocuous enough that the night constables never came by. The room they were in didn’t have a window, so it stayed warmer than the rest of the house, and after searching the building, John found another blanket and a barely used candle. It made sense to stay. And if a tiny part of John hoped to see Sherlock again—just to say thanks, nothing else—well, he didn’t let himself think about that too much.

With Harry well enough to stay on her own, John was able to go looking for work. It had been a hard year, though, and few people wanted to pay extra for shoe shining and the like. Still, it got him out of the building before he got cabin fever, and it gave him opportunities to find food. He hated begging, but it came down to that a few times when restaurants didn’t have any castoffs.

One night, John lay awake, trying to decide where to go looking for work the next day when he heard a noise in the corridor. Two thumps and a huff of breath. John grabbed the chair leg he now kept nearby as a weapon and stood up. Before he could make it across the room, a curly head popped through the door, followed by the rest of the strangely dressed boy.

John wasn’t sure how to feel. The boy was odd, delusional, and possibly dangerous, but he had given them a blanket and food. Plus, he was someone to talk to besides Harry, even if he rarely made much sense.

Letting the homemade weapon drop to his side, John nodded. “You again.”

“Hello, John,” Sherlock replied with a smile. “You’re not crying. Are you happy now?”

John snorted. “Better than last time at least. Thanks for that, by the way. I don’t– don’t like taking handouts, but…we needed them, so thank you.”

“They made you happy?” Sherlock asked eagerly.

“Less worried for a few days, yeah.”

Sherlock frowned. “But that doesn’t mean happy.”

“Well, no,” John replied with a shrug. “You can’t really be happy on the street. Too much to worry about.”

“But you just said you were less worried. If you got the things you needed, why are you still worried?”

Seriously, this kid was in his own little world. Who was he and why didn’t he understand? “You can stop the worry for a little while, but as soon as the food runs out, or the moment you see someone eyeing you a little too much, it all comes back. Solutions are short term here on the streets. You live a day at a time, an hour at a time. You can be happy for five minutes, then completely miserable for two days. It’s how it works.”

“Oh.” A frown marred Sherlock’s pleasant face. “You still need to find new parents. That would be a long-term solution?”

“Yeah, but–”

“I can help. I’m good at finding things. The residents of Neverland always ask me to help them find things. I–”

“It’s not–”

“–once managed to find the Chief’s favorite stone that he’d lost in the forest, just by him–”

“–that easy. Parents aren’t like lost things.”

“–telling me his exact route and what he did along the way. It took less than a morning. It was–”

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock stopped his story and fixed his gaze on John, blinking in confusion.

“You can’t just find parents like you find a lost stone. Most families don’t want to take in kids off the street. Either they can’t afford to or they don’t trust us. And we’re not going to an orphanage! That’s why we’re here to begin with. The streets are better than any orphanage could be.”

“I can do it though. I can find you parents. Tell me what they should be like, and I’ll find them for you. You said a parent is a grownup who keeps you safe. What else is a parent?”

John sighed. “Sherlock…”

“Please, John. I want to help.”

Sherlock’s earnest face stopped John’s protestations. The kid was delusional, but he did just want to help. He wouldn’t be able to, of course, but what did it hurt to tell him a few things? It was better than sitting here alone, worrying what tomorrow might bring.

With a shrug, John nodded to the corridor, so they wouldn’t wake Harry. He led them to another room he’d been using when he and Harry were fighting and they each needed some time alone. He slid down against the wall to seat himself on the floor. Sherlock mirrored him. John took the spare blanket he’d brought with him and covered himself and Sherlock.

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock asked, picking at the threadbare blanket, but not removing it.

“It’s cold,” John said simply.

“Oh. I guess I didn’t realize. Thank you.” He turned his face to John’s. “Now tell me what a parent is.”

John sighed as he thought. He’d done his best not to think about his parents. Not because they had been bad parents, but because they’d been good ones, and it hurt to think about them being gone. His mum couldn’t wrap him in her soft, warm embrace when he had a bad day. His dad couldn’t teach him how to throw a ball or start a fire. They weren’t there to make sure Harry had everything she needed.

But because Sherlock had asked, John thought about them. “A mum is soft and sweet. She bakes pastries and sings songs and sews up rips in your trousers. She teaches you your letters and helps you memorize poems for school. She frowns when you and your sister are fighting and sighs when you come home with dirty knees from climbing up trees. She laughs when you tell jokes, no matter how bad they are, and she tucks you in at night, even when you’re far too old for it.” John trailed off, lost in memories of when things had been good.

He was jolted out of his reverie by Sherlock’s sigh. “Oh. That sounds nice. A bit like a fairy then, like I thought. So a mum is just one type of parent? There are others?”

The question made John smile. How was this boy so clueless to what life was like? How had he grown up? Where had he come from? Why was he here? Instead of asking, though, he just nodded. “Yeah. There are mums, those are the female grownups, and there are dads, the male grownups. A dad is the provider of the family. He has a job that pays him money–”

“Oh! So he can buy things like blankets and food. I understand!” Sherlock interrupted.

“Yeah, that’s right. But that’s not all a dad does.”

Sherlock nodded with wide eyes, so John continued.

“He teaches you how to fix things. He makes you feel safe when things are scary. He whittles toys out of wood on quiet winter evenings. He tells funny stories. He teaches you how to be a man and how to treat others fairly. He gives you pats on the back when you do something well, and he whistles silly tunes when you’re sad. He yells at you when you don’t follow the rules, so you can learn to do better.”

“I see,” Sherlock said gravely, taking in every word that John spoke. “He is like the Chief.”

Despite himself, John couldn’t hold in his curiosity. He wanted to know more about Sherlock’s life, even if it was all in his head. “Who is the Chief?”

“He’s the person in charge of the others in Neverland. Not the pirates or the fairies or mermaids, but the others who live there, who have always lived there. I don’t talk to them much unless they need help finding something, but I think the Chief is like a dad. He takes care of the others in the tribe, makes sure they do what they are supposed to, teaches them to fish and hunt and build things. He taught me how to build my home, since Mrs. Hudson was too small to do that.”

“What’s your home like?” John let himself be lulled by the conversation. Sherlock’s voice was soft and soothing. And it was nice to not think about life for a while. He could listen just a bit longer.

“I live under the ground. It doesn’t have doors like you have here. I slid in through a hole under a tree. It’s cool and quiet. There are mushrooms and herbs growing on the walls. I have a special room for my experiments and books and treasures, and no one is allowed in but me. It smells like earth and flowers. I have a hammock for sleeping and a table for eating.”

“Who else lives there?”

“What?”

“You said no one is allowed in your experiment room. Who else could get in?”

“Oh,” Sherlock waved a hand. “Just Mrs. Hudson. But others might try. So I have a sign on it that says “Keep Out.”

“Oh. What do you experiment on?”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Everything. Plants. Animals. Rocks. Sometimes all of them at once.”

“Why do you do it?”

“So I can understand how they work. I’m going to know everything someday,” he added with a grave nod.

“Oh.” John didn’t know what to do with this strange boy. He seemed to genuinely believe he lived in this magical place with mermaids and fairies and pirates. But he was here in London, apparently living on the streets, same as John. How did he reconcile the two?

He was about to ask when a yawn stopped him.

“You should sleep,” Sherlock urged, pushing John to his feet. “I have work to do.”

“Work?”

“Finding you some parents. A mum and a dad,” he said slowly, still apparently unused to the words.

“Sherlock…”

“I’ll do it, John. I’ll find them for you.”

***

Sherlock came visit John every evening and tell him how the search was going. At first he only came after Harry had gone to sleep, until Harry found them talking the second night, then he started to come in time to hear the stories John told Harry. Sherlock loved John’s stories. It was one of the few ways to get him to shut up about his experiments or the adventures he had. Harry preferred Sherlock’s stories, so they started taking turns. One story each before sending her off to sleep.

After Harry had gone down, the two boys moved to the other room to continue talking. Sometimes they talked about Sherlock’s search, such as it was, with him not really knowing what he was doing. Sometimes Sherlock asked about John’s day, and he learned more about life on the streets. He always brought food now. When John protested, Sherlock shrugged and said he had lots of gold he’d stolen from the pirates, so he was able to trade the gold for things they needed.

By the end of the week, they had a nice enough nest, which was good, as Sherlock had taken to staying the night. He said he was hiding out from the pirates for a while, and he had more time for searching if he didn’t have to fly in from Neverland every day. John had shut down Harry’s question about flying with a look and a shake of his head. He was willing to listen to Sherlock’s stories, but he tried not to ask too many questions. He didn’t want to encourage his new friend, much as he liked him and his stories.

And he did really like Sherlock. He was sharp and funny. He could be rude, but John kind of liked that about him. He was different. He saw the world through strange eyes, and he always gave John something new to think about. Some days, when he was letting his mind wander while listening to Sherlock’s stories, he envisioned himself along with the other boy, fighting pirates and learning to dive from the mermaids. He imagined what it would be like to have his own hammock strung up in Sherlock’s underground home that smelled like earth and flowers. He fell asleep to such thoughts most nights, imagining being safe and warm and fed and happy.

***

“I’m not having much luck,” Sherlock confessed a week after he’d begun his (fruitless) search. “Sometimes I see people who fit your description, but they already have children. Or sometimes I approach them, and they give me mean looks and yell at me to go away. I approached a woman today who seemed perfect, and she was amenable to at least listening to me, but the man with her shoved me and yelled at me to keep my grubby pickpocket hands away from his wife.” He frowned at his knees, hidden under a blanket. He had taken to wearing a child-sized greatcoat he’d somehow acquired (“I like the way it flaps when I fly!”), but with the cold winter, John still shared his blanket with his friend. He liked the peaceful intimacy of it.

“I didn’t think it would be this difficult. I’m not giving up,” he assured John, “but it is going to take longer than I originally assumed.”

He had taken to reading books in his downtime, and John had noticed a large improvement in his vocabulary. Not that he hadn’t been well spoken before, but he had more words at his disposal now. John supposed there wasn’t much of a need for a large vocabulary on an island filled with pirates, a tribe of some sort that John still wasn’t sure about, and various magical creatures. Then he reminded himself that none of that was real.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. I never expected you to find us new parents. Thank you for trying, but you don’t have to do this. We’re fine. I’ve had word of some factory work that I think I can get. After that, we can buy our own food instead of taking your handouts.”

“They aren’t handouts, John. They are gifts. I want to give them to you. I like being able to help you. Plus, you give me stories and you told me how to find books! So actually, we have a good trading system in place, and you are receiving nothing that you aren’t paying for.”

John loved Sherlock’s way of seeing and living in the world, despite most of it not being real and it not being a feasible way to live. But it was nice to pretend sometimes.

“Be that as it may. You can stop your search any time. We’ll be fine.”

“I can’t fail you. I promised.”

“You tried, that’s what matters,” John soothed. “Now tell me about the first time you met Captain Mycroft. Where did he and his crew come from? Why did they go to Neverland?”

Talking about Mycroft was a surefire way to get Sherlock to forget his supposed broken promise. He was always going on about his archenemy, his greatest foe in Neverland. His ploy worked, and in minutes he was caught up in the story of his first run in with the pirate captain and what he’d deduced about their reason for being in Neverland.

The story went on for a while, and eventually John started nodding off—not from lack of interest in the story, but rather his own fatigue from a day spent tromping around town on his continued job search. He frowned, not wanting to think about real life while his friend was telling a much more fascinating tale. He hummed and leaned his head against the wall to listen.

“What?”

“Hmm?”

“You hummed and smiled. I wasn’t telling a funny story. If anything, you should be frowning at how terrible Mycroft is,” Sherlock explained.

John hummed again. “Just thinking how exciting it would be to go on one of your adventures with you.”

“Oh… Oh, John! Why didn’t I think of this before? That’s perfect. You should come to Neverland. You won’t have to find a job, you won’t be in a cold, dreary city full of mean, dreary people. You can live with me and Mrs. Hudson! There’s plenty of room. You can even bring Harry, since I know you worry about her. We can dig out a new room for her easily. Oh, it’s perfect. Then I’ll have someone to do experiments with, and to help me fight the pirates, and oh! You can help me climb the mountain. Mrs. Hudson won’t let me do it on my own, even though I can fly. But if you’re there, she’ll have to let me! Oh, she’ll be so happy to have you there. She’s always telling me to get a friend, and now I have one. I–”

Sherlock stopped his frantic speech when he looked at John. “Um, we are friends, aren’t we John? I didn’t mean to presume, but…”

John’s chest felt tight. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to crush his friend’s fantasies, when they apparently kept him able to continue living despite the hard existence of street life, but it wouldn’t do him any good to continue pretending it was real. Sherlock might be able to live that way, but John didn’t think he could. Life was terrible, but it was real, and hiding would only land them in a worse place than they already were.

Then he saw Sherlock shrinking in on himself, and so he pulled himself out of his head. “Of course we’re friends. We’re _best_ friends.”

Sherlock’s smile bloomed again. John liked his smile. It always made the knot of worry in his chest loosen just a little bit.

“Good. Then you will come to Neverland with me? You and Harry? If you’d rather have your own home…I’ll help you build it. Whatever you want. Just say you’ll come?”

He looked so hopeful that John couldn’t tell him a straight no. Not yet. “Let me think about it, alright? I might be able to get a job tomorrow, and then we’ll be fine.”

“Fine.” Sherlock didn’t look happy, but he at least wasn’t pursuing it further.

***

Sherlock continued to ask, and he started to pout when John said no. He upped the adventure in his tales, in obvious hopes of persuading John. Harry was already on board, despite John’s trying to keep Sherlock from saying something that would get his sister’s hopes up. She already believed that Neverland was real. He didn’t need her thinking she could move there and be happy and safe, as much as he wanted to give it to her (and himself, if he was being honest).

After three days, John gave in. He didn’t magically start believing Neverland was real, but he decided there was no real reason to fight Sherlock. He wanted to keep the boy in his life; the three of them were a family now. So if he had to pretend for his friend’s sake, he would. And who knew, perhaps whatever hideyhole Sherlock had was better than theirs. He was obviously adept at finding food, clothes, and other necessities, so his delusions weren’t keeping him from being productive. They could make this work.

“Fine, we’ll go with you to– to Neverland.” John ground out the last word, not happy about the way he had to do this, but still willing to do it for Sherlock. And when he saw the happiness on his friend’s face, he knew it was worth it.

“You will? Oh, John, you’ll love it. You’ll finally be happy, I promise. I can’t wait to see the look on Mycroft’s face when he sees you. Two boys to fight against! It will be so much fun…”

He chattered on about all the adventures they’d have. John let him, but didn’t add much. Not that Sherlock needed it. He could talk enough for three people. He segued from their adventures to how to get them there.

“I could try to steal the pirate ship… Not sure I can steer it on my own, though, and the pirates obviously won’t help me… Hmmm. Perhaps the Chief knows of a way. Or Mrs. Hudson… Oh! That’s it. Mrs. Hudson is a fairy.” He looked at John in expectant excitement.

“Yes?” John replied, not knowing how to play along.

Sherlock grabbed John’s upper arms. “Fairy dust, John. That’s how Mrs. Hudson took me to Neverland the first time. She sprinkled me with fairy dust. It’s how I fly!”

“Oh. So, you just sprinkle us with a little…fairy dust and we can fly too?” Perhaps going along with Sherlock’s delusions wasn’t the best idea. What if it ended with Sherlock hurt or even dead from thinking he could fly? John would never forgive himself for that. “Perhaps…”

Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

“Perhaps we should just stay here. I’m not sure about this whole flying thing.”

“You’ll be fine, John. You’re so brave and capable, I know you’ll pick it up in no time. Now, you get some sleep, and don’t worry about going out tomorrow. You’ll want to be well-rested for the flight. The journey is a bit long. I’ll go and get Mrs. Hudson from Neverland and will be back tomorrow night.” He frowned in thought. “You won’t be able to bring much, being new to flying, but most of what you’ll need can be found on the island, I’m sure. So maybe just some clothes.”

His frown transformed into a smile. “Thank you, John. I finally get to take care of you, just like I wanted, and you’ll be able to help me and keep me company. And Harry will be safe and well fed.” He leaned in and hugged John tightly. “It will be perfect. You’ll see,” he added in a whisper.

***

John didn’t sleep much that night, trying to decide whether to actually go through with this. Real or not, Sherlock’s delusions would have repercussions. It was one thing to indulge in his stories here, but flying? Moving somewhere else? It was more than he’d bargained for when he’d agreed to Sherlock’s scheme. But then he remembered how happy Sherlock had been the night before, and he wanted to see that again, for always. Sherlock needed someone to look after him. And since John cared about him—deeply, given how short an amount of time they’d known each other—he wanted to be the one to do that. He would keep Sherlock safe and happy. They’d be a family.

Decided, he roused Harry and fed her some breakfast. The last of it. Hopefully Sherlock would have more food…wherever it was he was taking them.

“Harry,” John began, trying to decide what to tell her. “We’re leaving tonight.”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Are we going to Neverland?”

John opened his mouth, then paused. “We’re going with Sherlock,” he finally settled on, “but, it’s not Neverland. Neverland isn’t real, Harry. I’ve told you this.”

“Yes it is! Sherlock talks about it all the time.”

“Those are just stories. He’s having fun. Like the stories I tell you.”

“No, you tell me once-upon-a-time stories. Sherlock tells did-I-tell-you-I-almost-got-eaten-by-a-crocodile stories. His are real.”

“No, he just thinks they’re real,” John explained. “Sherlock isn’t well. That’s why we’re going with him. He needs us.”

“To help fight the pirates,” Harry said matter of factly.

“To…” John trailed off. How did you explain being sick in the head? He remembered Aunt Tilly’s spiral into madness, but Harry had been too young to understand. “Some people don’t understand the difference between real life and made-up stories. They get confused.”

“But Sherlock is so smart!” Harry argued.

“He’s very smart, but some things don’t make sense to him. But he’s part of the family now, so we’re going to watch over him, alright? You can play along a little, just be very careful. He… he thinks he can fly. If you ever see him try to jump off something tall, you try to stop him. We don’t want him to get hurt, do we?”

Harry frowned, but agreed with a shake of her head. “No, we want to keep him safe.”

“Good. I’ve got to go out for a bit, but I’ll be back before Sherlock returns this evening. Stay here.”

***

Sherlock arrived a couple of hours after sunset, heralded by his usual thumps and huffs. John thought he must climb in from the roof, since he’d never heard him use the stairs, but he’d never been able to catch him at it. This time, the thumps were accompanied by Sherlock speaking softly to himself.

“Sherlock!” Harry cried as he entered the room. She was standing with her small bundle of clothes in hand. She’d been ready since sundown.

Sherlock grinned. “Hello, Harry. Are you ready to see Neverland?”

Harry glanced at John. He nodded cautiously, and she looked back at Sherlock with a smile. “Yes! How are we getting there? How long will it take? Is it cold in Neverland? All I have are winter clothes. What kind of clothes do they wear? Do I have to wear short trousers like you? Where will I sleep? John said we’re going to live with you. So we’ll be underground? I’ve never lived underground before, or in a forest, or on an island, or–”

“Harry,” John chastened softly.

Sherlock just grinned again. “It’s fine, John. You’ll see soon enough, Harry. First, we have to get you there. And yes, it’s a bit of a journey. It will take at least half of the night, but I’ll help you fly if you get tired, don’t worry. But before that, I need to teach you to fly!

Harry gasped, and John sighed.

“Sherlock, can’t we just walk for now. We can learn to fl–”

“You can’t get to Neverland by walking. Flying is the only way. Second start to the right–”

“And straight on till morning!” Harry finished for Sherlock.

“Indeed. Now, where did Mrs. Hudson go? She’s not usually this shy. She doesn’t like the city very much…” He kept muttering as he poked his head out of the room. “Mrs. Hudson! We’re ready!”

John was about to suggest walking again, when he heard a tiny bell. He closed his mouth and listened. There it was again. It sounded delicate and small, something rich people used to call the help to a room. Not that John had ever been around such things, but he could imagine. As the tinkling grew louder, a faint light lit up the hallway outside, getting brighter as the bell neared. And before John’s very eyes—unless he was dreaming, which was a distinct possibility—a tiny, bright creature flew into the room and landed on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“But– How–” were the only words John could get past his lips. The creature was human-ish in shape, about four inches high, and had wings and an orangish glow that seemed to emanate out of its tiny body, rather than coming from any specific source. It did not look like any Mrs. Hudson that John could imagine. He had half expected to find that Sherlock was actually being cared for by a kindly old woman who had decided she could take in a few extra mouths. Nothing, not even hours of Sherlock’s wild stories, could have prepared him for the creature on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is John and Harry. John and Harry, meet Mrs. Hudson.”

“Ooooh,” Harry said softly, walking up to Sherlock. “Can I touch her?”

John hadn’t realized a tiny tinkling bell could sound angry, but this one did. He stepped forward and put a protective arm around his sister.

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Hudson. She’s only curious. She’s never seen a fairy before.” Sherlock looked at Harry. “Best not until you know each other better and she’s comfortable with it.”

Harry nodded. “She can help us fly?”

Sherlock nodded. “She’ll sprinkle you with fairy dust–” he was cut off by more tinkling bells, though these managed to sound put upon rather than angry. Sherlock rolled his eyes in reply.

John didn’t know what to think. His mind had stopped working. He had to be dreaming. There was no way this was actually real, that Sherlock had been telling the truth all along. But oh, how he wanted to it to be true. He wanted the warmth and excitement and fun. He wanted the beautiful island, the mermaids, the house safe underground, even the pirates. Perhaps he had wanted it so much that he was letting himself be taken in by Sherlock’s fantasy. But it seemed so real. Mrs. Hudson looked real.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, for Sherlock stepped closer to him. “It’s real, John. I told you it was. You are allowed to be happy. You and Harry will live with me forever, and we’ll go on so many adventures. It will be wonderful.” His voice was soft and low as his hands landed on John’s shoulders.

Oh, how John wanted to believe. He looked Sherlock straight in the eye. He saw adventure and happiness. He let himself believe.

He lifted his own hands so they rested over Sherlocks. “Fine. Teach me how to fly.”

***

John snuggled further into his hammock (apparently traded from the Chief for some glowing rocks), which set it swinging gently. The journey had been long, and he was tired, but his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt, always brimming with ideas and visions and questions.

It was all real—Neverland, Sherlock’s underground home, the mermaids, the pirates. He’d seen it all as they flew in. Even after the long journey, he still could scarcely believe that he, John Watson, an ordinary boy, could _fly_. None of this seemed real, but it was, it actually was.

“Stop thinking so vociferously.”

Sherlock’s voice was just loud enough to travel from his own hammock that hung next to John’s, in an effort to keep from waking Harry. She had announced she’d be getting her own room as soon as one could be dug out, but until then, she slept in the main area just on the other side of the curtain from Sherlock’s (and now John’s) room. Mrs. Hudson kept her company, as they had become fast friends on the journey, Harry somehow able to understand the various trills and tinkles that were the fairy’s speech.

John huffed softly at Sherlock’s command. “This is all a bit hard to take in. Give me some time.”

“I’ve been telling you about it for weeks. If you hadn’t been so stubborn–”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m boring and stupid.”

“No, your mind is just a bit too rigid, too grownup. But don’t worry. We’ll have you in ship-shape in no time. A few trips to the lagoon and the pirates should set you to rights.”

He liked the sound of that. It was what he’d been dreaming about since he’d first met Sherlock. And now he had it. He breathed out a relieved and contented sigh and set his hammock to rocking again. “Tell me about the mermaids.”

***

“John, there are others like you and Harry.”

“Hmm?”

“Other street urchins who need homes.”

“Oh yeah. Lots.”

“Maybe we could give them a home.”

“That sounds like a fantastic idea, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my little story. I hope it brought a smile or two to your face.
> 
> FYI, background I couldn’t work into the story because I suck at writing: Sherlock had a nanny in England called Mrs. Hudson, and when the Neverland fairy found Sherlock, he called her that, because he thought that’s what all carers were called (he was very young). Since the fairy’s real name can’t be pronounced by the human tongue, it allowed Sherlock to keep calling it Mrs. Hudson. 
> 
> Other thoughts:  
> \- Greg and Molly are definitely the next kids rescued from the streets of London. The burrow home grows to many more rooms and becomes loud and boisterous and always safe. Sherlock yells at anyone besides John who tries to enter his lab.  
> \- Harry befriends a girl in the tribe across the island. The Lost Children (not Lost BOYS!) become very close to the tribe and they learn how to respect the island and take only what they need from the land.  
> \- Mycroft and Sherlock eventually have to make peace when the evil Moriarty comes to Neverland and they have to defend their home. They go back to being annoyed with each other after Moriarty’s defeat.
> 
> Come yell at me on Tumbler [@vateacancameos](http://vateacancameos.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter at [@aerynmoon0](https://twitter.com/aerynmoon0)


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